Sensory Overload
by DarthMomo
Summary: John comes home to a dark flat and Sherlock in a particularly bad state. Luckily he's there to help, if only he knew how to help and what was wrong. Rated T for mild use of a sedative.


" 'M back," Watson announced as he enter 221B, flicking on the lights.

"No! No, no lights. Off!" Was immediately screamed at him by his raven haired colleague.

The urgency in Holme's voice caused Watson to quickly reach for them and fumble to switch them off as requested. Shutting the dor behind him, the doctor hurriedly entered their flat, eyes instantly drawn to Holmes. The man was on his favorite chair crouching and curled in on himself, and looked like he was trying to touch as little as possible, ever so slightly trembling.

"Sherlock? Are you alrigh-"

The detective hissed in pain and brought his hands to his ears. Sitting on the adjacent sofa, Watson looked on with concern.

"Too much sight, smell, sound- John! Your breathing's too loud! iPlease/i... stop breathing."

"Stop breathing? I can't very well do th-" John trailed off as he saw Holmes' form shrink away. Now that his eyes were adjusting, the doctor could see just how affected Sherlock was by his surroundings. Trying to keep his voice soft, John asked," What's wrong?"

"Every, every, everything b-became so imuch/i. It's deafening, even this much light is so much! Why can't I turn smell off?"

"Sherlock, I'm sure it'll be over soon," He assured the man, not even knowing what was wrong.

"Keep talking. You must keep talking," Sherlock pleaded.

Watson sighed, breathing was too loud, but speaking was fine.

"I said for you to speak, not breathe. T-tell me something monotonous and boring. H-how about your life story?"

Watson fought an aggravated sigh, instead going along with it and began recounting his history in a soft voice. Happy days when he was a kid and Harry and he played on holiday.

Discreetly as John continued to speak gently, the doctor fished out his phone, glad that Sherlock's eyes were shut tightly. Undoubtably, Holmes would know exactly what he was typing and to whom.

"Help. It's Sherlock, and I don't know what to do," Sherlock whispered.

"What?

"To Mycroft, that's the text you just sent. It's a shame that in "don't", you have an & sign instead of an apostrophe."

As he was being corrected, Watson recieved a text.

iIf you don't, neither do I. Do you best.

MH/i

"John," Sherlock said with desperation. "The stimuli around me, it's all too much. There's... so loud and I can see everything too much, it's so loud! My tactile sense is through the iroof/i. The roof, the roof... You need to check the roof for repair. From the roof you could deter that the neighbor six doors down has started baking. He's not very good at it, but for some fathomless reason his girlfriend, she wants him to propose, eats it anyways. Today he burnt apple pie... 1.772453851..."

"Sherlock...! Sherlock!" Watson attempted to quiet his friend.

"... 483341145...!" Sherlock raised his voice to drown his flat mate until he was shouting at full voice.

"Get a hold of yourself," John said, placing a hand of Holmes' shoulder, only for the other to recoil.

"I am in icomplete/i control of myself," Sherlock exclaimed, trying to look up at Watson, but squinting.

"You're screaming the bloody square of ipi/i at me!"

"I don't scream anything," the inspector protested loudly. Jumping to his feet, he swung at the papers and things on the table, kicking around various items on the floor. "I don't understand!" He -not- screamed," I don't understand what is happening, but it's so loud and redolent, and I can't even process all the information I'm taking in!" Swinging his arm recklessly, it suddenly caught something alive, something that grunted in pain.

Watson winced as the fist made contact with his chest, the wind knocked out of him. Following the arm to the man, John wrapped his arms around Holmes and forced through gritted teeth," Just. Sit. iDown/i."

Pulling the taller man down on top of himself as he struggled to get them to the sofa, John took a second to sigh at the suggestive position they were now in. With Sherlock's head resting on his chest, his arms slightly curled around Sherlock...

"Your iGod Damn Breathing...!/i" Holmes complained before inhaling deeply and murmuring," You've been to your favorite coffee shop... Chilton Street... The man in front of you in line ordered the seasonal special, but he didn't like it, as evidenced by how strong you smell of it, he held it by you and far away from himself for quite awhile before you got you order."

"Not your best deduction, but for going through sensory overload, you did swimmingly," Watson said, relieved that Holmes was at least making sense again. He laughed as the man in his arms almost seemed to bristle at his words. "It was the woman behind me who ordered the seasonal blend, I'd turned around to talk to her, but you're right, she hated it."

Holmes hummed in acknowledgment, but kept his face buried in Watson's jacket. He was still trembling, Watson noticed, subconsciously doing a diagnosis. Coming up with nothing, he almost sighed, then remembered Sherlock didn't even want him ibreathing/i. With a flustered smirk, he said," I'll be right back, alright?" Gently propping the man up against the sofa, Watson quickly fetched a bottle and syringe.

"Do you make it a habit of having prescription medication that you obtained illegally?" As he cautiously watched John filling the syringe.

"I-Illegally...? Well, erm, yes," John admitted. "It's a light sedative I used to use on occasion before I met you." The doctor futilely hoped Holmes wouldn't analyze this.

"While you still had you psychosomatic limp? I assume you had trauma induced insomnia?"

"Something like that," He agreed as he measured a small dose of the medicine then flicked it to remove air bubbles. "There's just going to be a light pin-"

"You don't have to waste your breath, John. I've had more shots than you can imagine," Holmes scoffed.

Of course he was completely fine. Watson just rolled his eyes. Why did he ever waste time pretending Holmes was normal? Rolling Sherlock's sleeve up, Watson prepared to inject the drug when the detective flinched away.

"Absolute genius. Move while I'm administrating a shot," Watson snarked.

"Forgive me if I'm a tad..."

"Nervous?" Watson suggested.

"Nervous... A tad nervous, no I don't think that word quite fits. A tad _cautious_ after The Woman stuck me with a mysterious narcotic," He replied with a bite to his voice. "I'm ready now." His gaze was fixated on the needle but he didn't move a centimeter as it slid into his skin skillfully and emptied the liquid into his system.

"John," He said softly, almost so quietly that Watson had to lean in to hear," ... Hold me like you were before."

"What?"

There was no response as Sherlock looked away, a seeming apathetic expression on his face.

Watson may not have mastered the science of deduction as well as Holmes, but his colleague curling his fingers and the way he looked away definitely caught the doctor's attention. With hesitation, John set the empty needle down and reached out for his friend.

As Holmes rested his head, he said," You gave me too little, I've gained weight."

"Since only a month ago when I weighed you?"

"You've been forcing me to eat."

"You say that like it's terrible."

"It is," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "It slows me down."

Silence took hold and after a few minutes, Holmes began to to calm down a little. "I didn't scream the square root of pi at you, I informed you in a sensible tone."

"Uh huh." John absently rubbed Sherlock's back as the man became increasingly drowsier. Had he known he'd be caught under the drugged man, he would have been prepared, not wearing jeans or his stiff jacket. Looking down at the man's restful, peaceful, even a little joyful expression, John couldn't bring himself to leave though.

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent, his words slurred by now. John could almost swear he made out 'thank you' and smiled.


End file.
